Survivors
by Lightning at Noon
Summary: And that's what we are. Not winners like the Capital and even the districts like to think. Just survivors. Broken, victimized, lucky bastards of survivors.


**Just a quick one-shot that I had to write to get out of my head. **

* * *

I don't consider myself a winner. I barely consider myself a survivor. My entire family is dead and so are my friends. How can you be a survivor if you can barely get out of bed in the morning? And most days, I can manage to get myself out of bed, and I starts to believe that I might yet survive.

But the past two years, and it seems like far more than two years, on the day of the Reaping, I wish I was dead. It takes Blight to get me out of bed. He's been doing it for much longer than I have, and I has no clue how he does it.

And I force myself onto the Reaping stage to listen to whatever the Capital Escort of this year has to drone on about what an honor it is to be chosen. It's all a load of nonsense and the whole district knows it. It's not an honor, it's a death sentence. A death sentence Blight and I somehow managed to avoid. Not avoid, survive.

"Maybe the winner will come from District 7 this year," says the Escort. "Maybe the winner is standing in front of me right now."

And there's that word – winner. No one wins the Hunger Games. The Capital is foolish to think anyone wins their "game". You can't win something that costs you everything you are.

Finnick doesn't call himself a Victor. Even Brutus doesn't say he won. Annie calls herself a victim. Haymitch says we're just lucky bastards. And that's what we are. Not winners.

The boy and girl are chosen. They both walk numbly to the stage, and I look at Blight as he shakes his head. I can see two heartbroken parents in the audience who will be praying that I help their poor son or daughter win because they love them.

But even if these two had a shot, they can't win. The parents still loose their precious child. Maybe the Capital would kill them, or maybe the Games would change their children beyond recognition. There is no winning.

It's a relief to be on the train, away from the lost memories of my family. But now I'm getting closer to my memories of the Games. Memories of haunted eyes and bloodied limbs. Memories that keep me up at night.

Blight has a bottle of whiskey beside him, and I take a swig too. We share until the Escort arrives with the tributes.

They look at both of us as the Escort pushes them to the table that is laden with food. She looks at me and Blight with our alcohol and just shakes her head. She's probably thinking what an unbecoming habit drinking is for a Victor. But we're not Victors so it doesn't matter.

I see her take the other bottles of whiskey from the train car and leave us with the tributes. It's easier to call them tributes instead of children. Because they aren't children just like we aren't winners. They are tributes, and we are broken survivors.

And the two of them just watch us. Bryden is the boy, I think, and Willow is the girl. Not that their names matter. It's more bearable watching them die in the bloodbath when they have no names.

"How do we win?" asks the boy. That's always the first question they ask. I didn't ask it because I was too busy crying, but Blight says my partner did. They always want to win.

They never realize they're asking the wrong question. You can't win. No one wins, but no one understands that until everyone thinks you did. So Blight tells them to go for the Cornucopia.

They'll both die in the bloodbath if they do, we know that. But that's the only way they'll win; they only way they'll remain themselves. Two minutes in the arena will change them, but not as much as three weeks. Blight said his lasted a whole month- the Capital had both revenge and entertainment on its mind back during his Games.

If they'd ask how to survive, it'd be a different lesson. We'd tell them to run and find water, avoid the careers until they've broken up, and always be alert. Because surviving is the best you can do in the Games. I survived and so did Blight. We didn't win, we just survived the longest.

And that's what we are. Not winners like the Capital and even the districts like to think. Just survivors. Broken, victimized, lucky bastards of survivors.

* * *

**Reviews are always loved and appreciated. And if you're interested, check out my other story: the full backstory behind Mags.**


End file.
